


A Good Boy

by SpicyReyes



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: BDSM, Dom Q, Dom/sub, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Sub James Bond, Switching, this fic is mostly just porn and fake dating tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyReyes/pseuds/SpicyReyes
Summary: Bond gets sent on a honeypot, and learns a lot about himself.Unfortunately, most of MI6's employees also learn a lot about him.Also, most of MI6 think Bond and Q are dating, now, and Bond is doing absolutely nothing to dissuade the rumors.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely filthy, honestly. The whole fic. Just absolute filth.  
> (OR: the author really likes sub!Bond and wrote a whole fic about it)

Bond stared down at the mission brief materials and tried not to smack himself in the face in frustration.

He did give in to the urge to rub the bridge of his nose, showing the irritation that was filling him that this particular assignment was _his_ to take on.

“Something wrong, Bond?” Moneypenny asked, and Bond looked up to see her expression twisted up with amusement. She probably thought he’d throw a tantrum, or something – this mission was _not_ one anyone expected him to enjoy.

“You put me on a honeypot,” Bond pointed out. “There’s not a single assassination or even a scrap or a damn _poker game._ It’s just a honeypot.”

That threw Moneypenny a bit. “ _That’s_ what bothers you? Did you read the whole thing?”

He did. He knew what everyone expected him to react to: the target was male. Not his typical go-to, but Bond would be a liar (more so than usual) if he said he gave half a shit about what his bed partners had in their pants. Not that he’d ever said anything in the office – he was typically only ever _asked_ to sleep with females and he definitely only sought out women for his own pleasure while on the clock. He’d had two male honeypots in his life, and both were ages ago. Long forgotten among a pile of paperwork. He wasn’t even sure he remembered what to _do._

Bond turned the page, bringing up the picture of his target, and sliding it to Moneypenny. “If I had to bet, looking at him, that man’s a bottom. It won’t be _too_ different than my usual.”

Moneypenny snorted. “You’re incorrigible,” she told him, but that was the end of the casual conversation. They swapped instead to talking details about what he was looking for, what information to grab, etc.

 

 

A week later, all brushed up on his undercover persona and sipping a martini at a bar in _San Francisco_ of all places, Bond thought he was ready to go on his assignment.

He was _wrong._

He located his target quickly and approached him. The target’s name was _Tyler,_ and James pretended he didn’t know his last name was _Norton,_ and James went to introduce his alias, when Q finally spoke over the comms.

“If you throw out your alias and introduce yourself as normal, I’m sending you on your next mission with _thumb tacks.”_

Well, Bond always liked a challenge. “James,” he introduced, and sat across from Tyler. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Q made a frustrated noise in his ear.

“I’d rather buy you one, if I’m honest,” Tyler replied. “What’re you drinking?”

“Just a vodka martini,” James said, which was not exactly true. He’d been very specific about the instructions for making it, but he could drink a run-of-the-mill martini now that he’d had a couple of good ones to loosen him.

“Be careful drinking it,” Q told him. “Remember the polish.”

James had been given _nail polish,_ which he would deny to his dying day, that could detect drugs in alcohol. It was clear when applied, but would turn temporarily black while in contact with drugged liquor.

He waited for Tyler to get up and go to the bar before going to reply to Q, but Q beat him to the punch.

“You know by buying you a drink, he’s set the tone. He intends to fuck you.”

It was a good thing Bond had been about to speak, because he would have choked if he were drinking when Q said that. Quietly, just for the mic to hear, he said, “He _what?”_

He expected Q to laugh at him – Moneypenny would have. The old Q would have. Literally _anyone else in the office_ would be _rolling_ with laughter at Bond’s offended tone. Q, however, said the unexpected.  
“Do you need us to pull you? I can send another agent within the week.”

Bond shook his head, subtly, so as not to be seen by bargoers. He’d never had _anything_ up his own ass, not even a _finger,_ so this would be hard, but he would be damned if he made them pull him out and send someone else. That would be a kind of failure he wasn’t ready to accept. Quietly, into the mic, he admitted, “I just don’t know what I’m doing, then.”

Q’s reaction stopped Bond’s heart. “Luckily, I _do_.”

Bond took a second to glance around, making sure no one was paying him any attention, or could hear him over the noise of the bar. “You gonna walk me through this, then?”

He had been teasing, but Q just replied with a casual, “Yes, that’s the idea.”

Bond took a deep breath at that, scolding himself for getting _flustered._ He wasn’t-….

He didn’t even know how to finish that thought. Wasn’t _what?_ Gay? He was clearly at least bisexual. Girly? Men could be flustered. Attracted to Q and his stupid fucking velvet posh voice?

That one was just a _lie._

Admitting that to himself in the middle of a bar before a hookup was probably not a good idea, though, so he pushed it out of his head, just in time for Tyler to return with drinks. James smiled and thanked him, and when Tyler was distracted with the first sip of his drink, he dipped a finger into his own.

Still clear.

Good.

James quickly moved the finger away and took a small sip, when Q spoke again. “Drink the whole thing, but casually. He’ll ask you to leave when you’re finished with it, most likely. Besides, you’ll likely need the alcohol. The more relaxed you are, the easier this will be.”

Objectively, James knew that, but having someone _tell him_ made it so much more real, and suddenly his heart was racing.

He took a much longer drink, next, trying to pass it off as casual.

But, of course, his super-spy skills were thrown off balance, and the man across from him gave him a patient smile.

He’d noticed.

_Shit._

“Spin that,” Q said in his ear. “You have plenty of cause to be nervous. Play it up. Admit you’ve never done this, if you need to – it probably won’t throw him off much. Not now, though, wait until he’s at least half naked.”

Bond was going to strangle someone. If he could clone himself and strangle the clone, that would be his first go-to.

Tyler asked him a few questions about himself, and Bond replied with answers from the alias (I do security work, I have a sister, I’m very gay), because it seemed a waste to ignore the _whole_ file. Bond would then ask him similar questions, learning details about the man he’d already known from reading on him (he’s a CEO of a rather sketchy organization, he has no immediate family, he is _also_ very gay), and acting enthused with each answer.

He finished his drink. The second he’d sat it on the table, Tyler leaned forward. “Do you wanna get out of here? I have a place a couple blocks away.”

James made sure his smile looked casual and relieved, rather than as tense as he felt. “I’d love to.”

 

 

They took a cab over, where Tyler kept a hand on his knee the whole time. If James had any doubts on Tyler’s expectations for the night, they were erased with that gesture. James did the same thing to women he took home. A casual grounding touch, reminding them what they were going to be doing soon.

James wondered if it was supposed to be distracting, or arousing.

Right now, it was…both.

Huh.  
James was learning a lot about himself, this mission.

They got all the way up to Tyler’s place (the target’s hand on James’ back the whole time, which was making James a little jumpy) and in the door before Tyler spun him around and basically _attacked him_ with a kiss.

This part, James knew how to do, and he kissed back hard, only for Q to start clicking in his ear.

“Be _submissive,_ here. Kiss like your partners do, not like yourself.”

So James backed off a bit, letting Tyler set the pace.

“When he pulls back,” Q said, “ask him to fuck you.”

James felt sort of cold at the suggestion – he’d never been one for _begging –_ and yet, couldn’t really see any reason not to do it. He waited for Tyler to break the kiss, and panting, murmured, “Fuck me.”

Tyler’s stare turned beyond heated, and that was probably worth the slip in character.

Probably.

It depended on how much he’d actually _enjoy_ this. James was betting “not a lot.”

Tyler pulled his shirt up and off, and didn’t even really give pause to his scars before leaning forward and-…

Oh.

James had never thought his nipples would be particularly sensitive.

Good to know he was wrong.

Bond’s head tipped back into the wall, enjoying the feeling, while Tyler continued to undress him.

Tyler broke contact long enough to strip himself, and then pressed their bodies together closely and _grinding_ against Bond.

Bond tipped his head _forward,_ that time, burying it into Tyler’s neck as he gripped the man’s shoulders. The contact was desperate and heated, just like Bond liked it.

“Bed?” Tyler suggested.

“Agree,” Q said. “You don’t want to have your first time against a wall.”

Bond wanted to protest that he was _far_ from a virgin, but he supposed the phrase was accurate for this particular situation. So he nodded.

And then he was _picked up._

He panicked, for a second, before reacting on reflex and wrapping his legs and arms around Tyler. It was such a weird position, for him, so used to being the one on the other end, and he was pretty sure Q was barely restraining laughter.

He was put down on the bed and pushed back, and he reached up, grabbing Tyler’s wrist.

Now was the time to confess.

“You should probably know,” he said, “I’ve never actually been on this side of things.”

Tyler gave him the same patient smile he had in the bar and kissed along his chest. “That’s fine. I’ll make it good.”

“Or _I_ will,” Q said in his ear.

Bond really wasn’t sure why the echoed sentiment made him feel so at ease.

Tyler reached to the side of the bed, digging in a drawer and pulling out a lube bottle…but no condom.

Red flag. _Red flag, red flag, red fucking flag!_

“Condom?” Bond asked weakly, not really sure which of the men he was talking to.

Tyler paused. “We don’t really _need_ one, if you don’t want to use one, but I can get one if you’d rather?”

In his ear, Q told him, “He had a medical test two weeks ago as part of a regular regimen, and he is free of diseases. As our you, according to your last physical. So if you want to go without, you _can,_ but I’m warning you, clean up immediately afterwards. It will be extremely uncomfortable if you let yourself dry.”

Bond tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Okay,” he said, talking to both men at once. “Okay, no condom. Got it.”

Tyler kissed along the inside of his thigh, which made him get hard again – he’d apparently softened a bit during his internal panic – and opened the lube, slicking his fingers up.

The next two actions were quick. Tyler licked along his dick, and while Bond was enjoying that, he slipped a finger into James’ ass.

Bond bit down on his own moan before it could even happen, instead grinding his teeth, not really enjoying the finger.

“Relax,” Q told him. “The inside of you has plenty of nerves that can make this pleasurable, once you adjust. Including the prostate, which is…honestly spectacular.”

Q was speaking from experience. Bond figured he was, but to actually have it so _blatantly confirmed_ was…

The finger inside him twisted and turned and crooked forward, and Bond actually _did_ moan.

Another finger brushed against him, slowly sliding in next to the first, and Bond had to remind himself that he’d been _shot_ before, pain was nothing.

He cursed to himself anyway.

“Shh,” Tyler murmured, kissing along his thigh again. “Just relax, it’ll feel good soon.”

Bond forced himself to obey, letting the fingers in him shift about and massage him from the inside, hoping that his nerves would soon light up with a _different_ signal, and then he could-…

_Oh, shit._

That. That was definitely the prostate.

Bond reflexively reached a hand to his dick, only to have it batted away by Tyler. He groaned.

“I’d like to see how far I can get you without help,” Tyler told him. “I don’t expect you to come from this alone, not the first time, but I’d like to at least get you close.”

And that should not be attractive. That should _not_ be attractive.

It was attractive.

Bond was _fucked._

“He’s a bit of a dom, then,” Q said in his ear, with the same casual tone he used to log the features in his newest prototypes. “That could make this far better, or far worse. He wants you to surrender to him, though, so I suggest you let him lead completely.”

Bond wasn’t really good with _surrender._

He knew, distantly, where the bugs in the place had been set up, so he sought out where he knew a camera was, and glared at it while Tyler was distracted.

“Play nice,” Q told him. “Give away our bugs and I will stop helping.”

Bond – to his own surprise – looked away from the bug quickly.

A third finger had been added, at some point, while Bond was distracted, and he could feel the stretch now. It was impossible, and…

_Good._

James didn’t think he’d enjoy this, even a little, but now that he was adjusted it wasn’t a bad feeling. And each time Tyler brushed his prostate, “not bad” became “bloody fantastic” for a split second, and soon, James was clutching at the sheets to avoid touching himself.

And then the fingers were out.

Bond let out a noise he would _never_ admit to, looking up at Tyler, to see him lubing up his own cock.

“007,” Q said in his ear. “You’re tensing. _Relax._ He knows what he’s doing. You were enjoying his fingers fine, you’ll enjoy this more, I promise.”

Bond forced himself to relax again.  

Tyler slid into him slowly, and Bond sucked in a sharp breath.

It hurt, more than the fingers, but it also lit up his nerves with a feeling he couldn’t quite describe. Within seconds, Tyler was completely in him, and Bond distantly acknowledged that his dick was pretty big.

Tyler shifted his weight, moving inside him, and Bond amended his thought. _Really_ big.

He wondered if this was how his partners felt, on this end. He wondered then if that was a good thing or not.

Tyler began to roll his hips, pulling out and pushing back in, again and again, and then slammed on one thrust dead into his prostate, causing Bond to yell out.

_Definitely a good thing. Oh, God, definitely a good thing._

“You’re doing well,” Q told him, and Bond let out a small whimper he decided he would never, ever make again. “You seem to be enjoying yourself, and he _definitely_ is. I think he’s getting off on your noises. Make a few more?”

Bond groaned loudly, but it was less about obeying Q and more about _that almost sounded like dirty talk._

“Good boy,” Q said, and Bond bit down on his own lip to muffle his moan. “Oh, do you like that? Huh. Never would have imagined.”

Bond tipped his head back and let out a cry, and very nearly came as the next thrust hit his prostate again.

“You’re close,” Tyler said, and Bond had nearly forgotten he was even there. “Now, do you think you can come without me touching you? Or do you need some help?” Tyler reached a hand for his dick.

“You don’t need it,” Q told him. “Bat it away.”

Bond obeyed without a second thought.

When he locked eyes with Tyler, the man’s pupils were dark, and he sped up the movement of his hips, absolutely _wrecking_ Bond.

“He’s going to come soon,” Q told him casually. “You coming first would probably pull him over the edge. Work yourself on him, let him get you off. It’ll benefit you both.”

Bond started moving his own hips, bearing down on Tyler with each thrust, meeting him halfway and pulling the man deeper into himself. It only took a few seconds of that before Bond was coming across him own chest, tensing down around Tyler’s dick.

Before his own orgasm was even done, he could feel Tyler coming inside him, and the feeling was…intense. He came a little harder from it.

“Huh, more kinks I wasn’t expecting,” Q observed. “Maybe we should give you male honeypots more. You seem to enjoy them.”

Bond groaned quietly at the idea.

Tyler pulled out of him, slipping off to the bathroom, and returned with a wet washrag, which he started to run over Bond’s chest, cleaning him up. He then did the same to Bond’s ass, which made him have to bite his own lip, because he now understood the word _overstimulation._

Tyler then tossed the rag aside, and laid down next to Bond on the bed. “Good?”

Bond rolled over, kissing Tyler full-on the lips as an answer, making the man laugh into his mouth.

“I’m going to sleep,” Tyler said, when Bond pulled back. “Feel free to hang around. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Bond was _really_ tempted to sleep, but knew he had a mission. He just nodded.

“Rest your head on his chest,” Q said. “Pretend to fall asleep, until he’s out. Then continue your mission.”

Bond obeyed.

He’d done a lot of that, tonight.

Q seemed to notice, too. “If sex is all it takes to get you to listen to me, perhaps I should pull some strings to make _all_ your missions honeypots.”

Bond had to force himself not to react.

This little shit would be his _death._

 

 

 

The mission was a success, of course. Bond got the hard drive access for Q and then booked it out of the apartment complex and back to the airport, where he boarded a flight for England.

The whole way back, Bond felt panicked. _Everyone who tuned in to his mission saw him get off on Q’s voice._ Everyone. Every single member of Q branch, Moneypenny – hell, probably M himself.

Bond took a deep breath, and decided the best way to play it was to just own it. If he acted ashamed, they’d know he was hiding something.

He had to act like he’d _meant_ to do every single thing he had.

He walked into HQ casually, as though he owned it, and was grateful to see very few people stop to look at him.

He went up to medical for his post-mission testing (doubly important since he’d skipped condoms) and then reported to M.

M and Moneypenny looked at him when he walked in, and Moneypenny _clapped._ “Spectacular performance. I didn’t know you were a sub.”

James wanted to flip her off, but decided against it. Instead, he gave a mock bow, which sent her into giggles.

He gave a quick report – _Fucked him, stole his shit, booked it out –_ and then left the office. The second he was in the lobby of the office area, though, Moneypenny poked her head out the door and called, “Make sure to report to your boyfriend, next.”

Bond tensed as she laughed and shut the door back.

Everyone in the lobby was staring at him, so he forced himself to relax, give a cocky grin, and fast-walk out of the room.

And then he rushed all the way to Q-branch.

He ignored everyone in the area, despite how they all watched him, and went straight to Q’s desk, dropping his duffel bag unceremoniously onto the surface. “Ta-da.”

Q kept typing for a second, not even looking up, before apparently reaching a stopping point and turning to look at Bond. He gave the man a quick once-over before ignoring him in favor of the bag, which he dug into with a calm, collected demeanor, as though he hadn’t threatened Bond for every piece of equipment in it.

He pulled out the hard drive, first, examining it and setting it aside. “Mission success, I see.”

“As always,” Bond replied easily.

Q continued digging, pulling out the equipment piece by piece.

When he got to the bottom of the bag, and pulled out the container of drug-detecting nail polish, he paused. “Bond.”

“Yes?”

“You brought the polish back,” Q pointed out.

“Yes, I did.”

Q gave him a skeptical look. “You brought _everything_ back.”

Bond grinned at him.

Q huffed. “I suppose it _was_ just a honeypot…But I expected to be short at least _one_ piece of equipment.”

“Give me more credit, next time,” Bond replied.

“Perhaps,” Q said. “You may go, now, if you wish.”

Bond turned to leave.

“Oh, and Bond?”

Bond turned around, to see Q give a small, wicked smile. “Good boy.”

Bond rushed out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q is kind of an asshole in this chapter, but that's mainly bc he's being misunderstood. He softens up a lot as we go on.

James didn’t even pause along the way between Q-branch and his apartment. Once there, he collapsed onto his bed, determined not to move again until he was forced to.

He made it about eight hours before he felt the need to eat and shower, and after that, he was able to fuck around in his place reading and watching movies and generally avoiding responsibilities until a whole day and most of the next had passed.

Then, he was roused from another bout of sleep (a random nap, rather than a night) by his phone ringing, which he answered to hear Moneypenny demanding he drag his ass to work.

 _Back into the fray,_ James thought.

 

 

James found Moneypenny first, who waved him off before he could say a word. “Not me. Q has your next assignment.”

So James found himself slinking back to Q branch, hoping that no one had paid too much attention to him fleeing the department two days prior. Specifically, what had _made_ him flee. No one else needed to know his submissive tendencies or his newly-discovered praise kink. Hell, _Q_ didn’t need to know, but that was beyond helping, now.

James was spectacularly unlucky, though, and the second he stepped into Q branch, a hush fell and people turned to stare.

As he had the last time he’d entered the department, he ignored them, strolling straight up to Q. “You had something for me?”

Q handed him a file off his desk without looking up. “Not a honeypot, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, tragic,” James drawled, flipping the file open. The papers on top were the same as his last folder: profiles on Tyler Norton. “This guy again?”

“It’s an assassination, now,” Q said, sounding oddly pleased. “His hard drives contained quite a lot of incriminating information. He’s been stealing secrets from a number of different secret organizations around the globe, and he’s rather close to breaking MI6 security. Or, he would be, if I hadn’t fixed the firewalls personally.”

James rolled his eyes. Q was a braggart, there was no helping it. “So we’re taking him out?”

“It’s that, or we hire him,” Q said.

“So why don’t we do that?” James asked.

Q looked at him incredulously. “Did you- did you get _attached_ to him?”   
James wanted to snort at how ridiculous that was, but at Q’s offended face, he decided to play it up a little. “Well,” he said, drawing out the sound. “He does owe me breakfast.”

Q’s face turned to _steel._ “007,” he scolded. “You have a mission. _Do it.”_

James tossed the file onto the desk. “My dear Quartermaster – are you having him killed because of a _personal vendetta?”_

Q recoiled. “Don’t be silly.”

James narrowed his eyes, before grinning. “You are. You chose the path that would keep him far away from your precious workspace because you’re _jealous.”_

Q glared. “If I were jealous of every person you’d ever slept with, I would have more rage in my body than oxygen.”

James blinked. He’d been referring to jealousy of _intellect,_ not jealousy over…him. That was telling, he supposed.

And also, _insulting_ , because he was pretty sure Q had just called him a whore.

“Fine,” James sighed. “I’ll put a bullet in him. But that means _you_ owe me breakfast, instead.”

He walked out, file in hand, before Q could sputter out a response.

 

 

 

That was how James found himself sitting on a rooftop in California three days later, staring through a scope, watching for a familiar figure.

“This is stupid,” James muttered, more to himself than anything. “I can’t believe I’m wasting a bullet on him.”

“Shut up, 007,” Q snapped in his ear. “He’s coming out of the building now.”

James shifted, watching, carefully measuring where to shoot, and lining up the shot.   
“Fire,” Q said.

“Yes, sir,” James muttered, and pulled the trigger. He only waited a breath to make sure the man was down, undoubtedly, dead. Within seconds, he was moving, packing the rifle and booking it off the roof and back down to the streets, the “briefcase” look of the rifle case making him blend in with the crowd.

“Head down this street, and take a left at the hotel. Then keep walking until you’re about four buildings in and cut through the alley.”

James obeyed the directions, finding himself in front of a little hidden-away club. The sign declared it _The Jade Dragon,_ and there were stickers in the window of a rainbow flag and an acronym of “S.S.C.”

“Where am I, Q?” he muttered.

“A club,” Q replied. Before James could be sarcastic, he pressed on. “I took the liberty of doing some research on the area, and found a forum where this place was mentioned repeatedly by name. You can hide here a while.”

James sighed, but stepped in, only to pause.

The smell of sex hit him like a train, and he could hear moaning coming from behind the many doors that surrounded the main area. Other than that, it was a normal club: people were dancing and drinking at the bar like any other place.

Except…not quite.

Because this wasn’t a normal club with backrooms for fucking; this was a _sex club._ BDSM, it looked like, judging by the casual fetish wear around the room, and the handcuffs and straps around the place, and _is that a flog in that woman’s hand?_

“What have you done now?” Bond murmured, and he could hear Q’s faint laughter.

“It’s a BDSM club,” Q told him. “The stickers on the door should have clued you in.”

 _S.S.C._ Safe, sane, consensual. The BDSM motto.

James was going to _kill_ his Quartermaster.

A woman suddenly appeared at his side, in a short black dress that hugged her beautifully, and gave him a wicked red-lipped smile. “Well, if you aren’t dressed sharp,” she said, eying James’ suit. Her eyes settled on the case. “Come from work, or is that full of something fun?”

He thought about the high-powered sniper rifle laying inside, beefed up with the latest MI6 tech. “Both,” he answered. “But mainly the work part. A…friend…directed me here. He failed to inform me what I was walking into.”

She pouted. “Oh, that’s rude. But don’t let it though you off – we don’t bite, unless we know your safeword.” She winked. James gave a strained smile. “For real, though, sweetheart. What’s your poison? Even if you just sit around and drink, we’re good company.”

“You need to stay off the streets for at least forty-five minutes,” Q informed him. “And I don’t have eyes on you in the private rooms – no cameras, except in the lobby – so other than the radio, you’re alone. Have fun, if you’d like.”

Distantly, Bond wondered if this was Q trying to prove he wasn’t jealous.

He didn’t really care.

He had forty-five minutes to enjoy himself.

He looked around for the camera in the lobby Q had hinted he was watching through, and grinned at it, before looking back to the woman. “I have around an hour before I have anywhere to be. This is as good a place to kill time as any.”

She grinned broadly. “There’s the spirit. C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink.”

 

 

 

He flirted with her casually throughout the drinks, which were pretty good, for typical alcohol (as opposed to his fancy high-end mixed drinks and complicated cocktails and made-up martinis).

Then she put her hand on his knee, and he grinned, knowing where that was going.

“Wanna move to a back room?” she murmured. “You’ve got the kind of ass I’d love to get my hands on, and I have a new strap-on that needs breaking in.”

Okay, so maybe he _didn’t_ know where that was going.

But…damn, if that didn’t sound good.

“Lead the way.”

 

 

 

James discovered, with the strange woman’s help, that being able to come from prostate stimulation alone was a _thing_ for him, not just a one-off.

She was impressed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a guy that could get off like that,” she said. “I have guy friends that have, but typically, if they like it up the ass that much, they’re gay.”

James tensed, but she ran a hand down his spine, massaging as she went.   
“Down, boy. Not accusing you of anything. I can tell you like women _very_ much.”

James hummed. “That I do.”

“So, who is ‘Q’?” she asked.

James froze. “What do you-…”

“You muttered it when you came,” she told him.

James felt like he could sink into the floor. Luckily, he’d had the foresight to shut his mic off, so while he could hear Q, Q wouldn’t hear a word of this conversation.

“Nobody important,” James said, finally, to which the woman snorted.

“Bullshit. They’re somebody, if you’re distracting yourself from a perfectly good lay by thinking about them.”

James sighed. “I don’t think I’ve ever called out someone’s name during sex,” James mused. “Not even the _right_ name. I just don’t do very good with sex and coherent thought.”

“Then it must’ve been subconscious,” she said. “Another point in the ‘they matter’ column.”

James sighed heavily. “Technically, I work for him,” he admitted.

She winced. “Ouch. Hard on for the boss. That’s never good.”

James laughed. “He’s not my _boss._ He is over me, but not in charge.” A pause, where James considered what else he could reveal, and then, “He’s the one who sent me here. I think he was making fun of me.”

She tsk’d. “What a prick. Still, worked out for me.”

“Yeah,” James agreed. “He found out- He realized I have this. Praise thing. And he’s taken to using it against me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like…?”

“He keeps calling me ‘good boy’ when I do something.”

She huffed out a frustrated breath. “If he’s mocking you, slug him. Your kinks are your business. You should be able to enjoy them without being picked on.”

James smiled at her, immediately deciding he liked her. “What’s your name?”

“Call me Candy,” she said. “Short for Candace, which is a downright shitty name.”

James shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I’m James.”

She watched him skeptically, before humming. “I’m going to accept that that’s probably your real name, and just really boring, instead of a lame alias. Mostly because I’ve decided I like you.”

“It’s mutual,” James assured her. “Most people here ‘James Bond is being mocked’ and immediately side with the person trying to take me down a peg.”

She hummed. “ _Bond_ , huh?”

James realized he’d given her his last name, and shrugged.

She reached out, petting his hair. “Tell you what, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m gonna give you my number. And if that boy or anyone else starts getting on your case about shit that ain’t their business, you give that number a call, and Mama Candy’ll come kick their asses.”

James was amused by the idea – a spy and assassin who just shot someone in the streets less than half an hour ago, being defended by a woman who couldn’t be more than 5’4” out of heels and was maybe, _maybe,_ around 8-9 stone soaking wet.  “Will do,” he told her, instead.

“You don’t believe me,” she observed. “But if there’s one thing I don’t stand for, it’s people making others feel bad for things they have no business even knowing. If they’re not fucking you, then it shouldn’t matter. And if they _are_ fucking you, they should accept your kinks, and at least try them out before they start judging. So long as everyone plays safe.”

James was honestly being _lectured_ on the floor of a backroom in a sex club by a dominatrix who’d fucked him with a strap-on five minutes prior. What even happened to his life?

Static flared to life, suddenly, in Bond’s ear. “Your line went dead thirty-four minutes ago, so I’m only hoping that you still have the comm in your ear, but if you do, turn your goddamn mic back on and tell me you haven’t been stabbed or otherwise attacked in a sketchy sex dungeon.”

James reached up, pretending to scratch at his ear, so that he could subtly flick the mic back on.

Q sighed over the line. “I hear the static, so I’m guessing that means you’re live. If you can’t talk to me, talk to whoever else in the room. If you’re in danger, ask if the bar will serve you water.”

“I appreciate your offer, Candy,” James said, instead of asking anything relating to the bar. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Just hand me your phone, loverboy,” she said.

James moved to where he’d discarded his pants, dug in the pocket to find his phone, and passed it over in time to hear Q protest, “What? Don’t give your phone to strangers!”

James ignored him, letting Candy punch in her number, and watching her send herself a text before handing the device back.

James got dressed after that, taking his movements slow to savor the small twinges in his muscles from the sex.

“I’ve got a car on its way,” Q told him. “Go get a drink, and by the time you finish it, we’ll be ready for you.”

Bond smiled at Candy. “I’m gonna get a drink. Want one?”

“I’ll pass,” she said. “I’m gonna see if I can lure any more pretty boys in here to wear me out.”

James shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He went and ordered a martini, giving the instructions for a Vesper, because he was feeling sappy.

When he finished it, he went out to meet the car, climbing in, to see _Moneypenny_ sitting in the back with him.

“You flew out here, too?” he asked.

“I left just a few hours after you,” she said. “I was told to tail you, make sure you didn’t tell us to go fuck ourselves and found your own way of doing things. I mostly ignored them and toured the city, instead.”

James rolled his eyes. “Good. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

“Clearly you _do,_ because Q called-…”

James snorted.   
“…And he says you gave your phone to some woman in there.”

James shrugged. “She was friendly. I got her number.”

“ _Friendly_. Christ, Bond,” she held out her hand. “Let me get the number, I’m running a background check.”

“What? No!” Bond backed up to the door of the car, keeping distance between himself and Moneypenny. “That’s invasive.”

“Like you really care,” she said. “Give me the damn number.”

Bond sighed, finally relenting, and handing the phone over. “It’s under _Candy.”_

“Stripper names, nice,” she murmured. She pulled out her own phone, typing up the number, before handing Bond his cell back. “I’ll have a full bio on her by tomorrow. I assume you don’t want it?”   
“You assume correctly,” Bond told her. “Just make sure she’s not out to murder me, or whatever you need to sleep at night, and then _butt out.”_

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll let you get yourself a girlfriend. God knows they don’t last long, anyway.”

That…actually stung, a little, and Bond responded by shutting down, refusing to say another word the whole way to the airport.

 

 

 

Once back at HQ, Bond developed a hasty plan: do the necessary report to M and to medical, and then book it home again.

This was shattered when M looked up at Bond’s entrance to his office and drawled, “I didn’t give you the mission, Q did. Report to _him.”_

Great. _Just_ what Bond needed.

Bond walked into Q branch for the third time that week, but this time, when everyone turned to stare, he glared back. “Don’t you lot have actual fucking _work_ to do?”

That startled them into scattering, but Bond was too irritated to be pleased with himself.

He reached Q’s desk, and dropped his rifle case onto the desk next to him.

“Do try to be more gentle with that,” Q drawled. He opened it, examining its contents. “Still intact. Good-…”

“Do you need something else?” Bond interrupted, not in the mood for Q’s teasing use of the phrase.

Q blinked, only looking thrown for a split second. “…No. You’re free to leave.”

On the way out, Bond pulled out his phone, shooting Candy a text.

_If he calls me ‘good boy’ one more time without putting his dick in my ass, I’m going to stab him._

He was in the car headed home when the reply pinged in.

_-U GET HIM, BOI! XOX_

He rolled his eyes at the text speak.

_You type like a teen girl, you know._

Another moment, and Candy’s reply:

_-go fuck urself I type how I want_

He was about to put his phone aside when another text from Candy came through. Then another, and another, all in quick succession.

_-For real, tho – don’t let the fuckboi bring u down_

_-Ur a damn good lay and a sweetheart_

_-+ if he thinks ur kinks are something that he can bring up AT WORK than he’s more fucked than u’ll ever be_

James smiled to himself. She missed a lot – he was hardly a _sweetheart_ , after all – but the feeling was there, and it’d been a while since someone genuinely cared about his emotional wellbeing.

And then his phone buzzed again, and James nearly died, because it was from _Q._

_-You realize I have your phone tapped?_

Humiliation and rage boiled James’ blood, and he resisted the urge to throw his phone.

The car finally reached Bond’s place, and he more or less ran up the stairs into it, slamming the door behind him, brain whirring with potential replies.

Finally, he just thought ‘fuck it’ and typed the first one that came to mind.

_Then you know I have a 5’4” fiery redhead woman who is willing to stab you if you keep making fun of me. Proceed with caution._

It was a whole ten minutes before he got another text, and when he did, there were two.

_-I’m more worried about you shooting me than a random woman doing anything._

And, after that:

_-And I wasn’t making fun of you._

Bond froze, staring at his phone screen.

If he wasn’t being mocked, what the hell _was_ happening?

He sent a text to Q.

_Take the bug off my phone, or ignore my next few messages. I need to vent._

He waited for Q to reply, a simple _Noted,_ before pulling up Candy’s number again.

_Got caught texting by ‘fuckboi’ himself + I think he’s trying to apologize. Not really sure how to proceed._

Candy texted back immediately.

_-Either tell him to fuck himself or tell him to fuck u, depending on how u feel. ;)_

James sighed.

_Is ‘both’ an option?_

- _Ooh boi, now u gettin kinky! Wat u do is u play hard 2 get. Make him beg, boi!_

_I really doubt he’s the begging type, and I have a reputation for being easy. This seems like a poor plan._

_-Did u just call urself a slut? Cause I’ll have u know I will fight u. aint nothing wrong w/ likin sex._

_I know that. Trust me, I know._

_-what’s he saying anyway_

_He said he didn’t mean to make fun of me._

There was a long pause before the next text.

- _BOI HE AIN’T APOLOGIZIN HE TRYIN 2 GET W/ IT._

James blinked.

_What?_

_-He wants 2 fuck u. he been playin w/ u trying to get u hot+bothered_

James stared.

_Hold on, I’m texting him._

_-u get it, boi. Lemme know if he any good._

To Q, James sent another text.

_If you are trying to fuck me, I’ll have you know I have standards._

A long pause.

- _News to me._

James bristled, only for another text to ping in.

- _Sorry, that was uncalled for._

_Damn right it was. I ought to block your number._

_-I’d have a new phone in ten minutes._

_-Not the point, though. The point is that I am not trying to kink-shame you, I’m trying to let you know that you’re not the only one here with an unexpected power dynamic._

James paused. _What does that mean?_ He sent off.

- _No one expects the twink to be a dom._

James choked, both at the casual reference to gay slang and the admittance from Q.

_Okay, shelving that, I’m returning to my earlier question. Are you trying to fuck me?_

_-I thought that was obvious._

James rolled his eyes.

He ignored Q for a minute, texting Candy instead.

_He is trying to fuck me. Not sure how this is my life._

_-it’s cause ur hot tbh_

_Why thank you. Now tell me what to do._

_-Fuck him, duh._

_So helpful. Thank you, truly._

_-that’s what im here 4_

To Q, he sent:

_When do you get off work?_

And then:

_I assume you know where my apartment is?_

Q took about five minutes to reply.

- _Already heading there._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about 95% a scene between Q and Bond. The end is set-up for the next chapter.

James Bond knew for a _fact_ that it took, at most, twenty minutes to get between his place and HQ.

So, after an _hour_ of waiting, he was pretty convinced Q was fucking with him.

He looked at the door one last time, and then sighed heavily to himself, deciding it was probably for the best. He moved to the bedroom, stripping off his suit and changing into nothing but a pair of soft drawstring pants, and went to lay down, only for a knock to _finally_ come at the door.

He would never admit – not to _anyone_ – how quickly he rushed to answer it.

He threw it open, staring Q down. “You’re _late.”_

Q looked…off-balance. “Sorry, I had to stop by my own flat, and pick up some things.” He patted a duffle bag on his shoulder, which James eyed warily.

“Inviting yourself to stay the night?” James asked.

“No,” Q replied quickly. “Well, I mean, there are clothes in here, should you wish me to stay. But mostly it is made up of…supplies, so to speak.”

James swallowed. “Supplies?”

“Scene setup and such,” Q said. “I’ve been thinking about this since your honeypot mission, and I have a few ideas.”

James didn’t know what to say to that, but his dick was _definitely_ curious, so he stepped aside and waved Q in.

Q walked over through his sparse apartment to the coffee table (which was not surrounded by couches, only sitting next to a single chair, because James never even really _considered_ the idea of guests) and setting his bag down on it. He then opened it, and as James approached, he began narrating what was inside.

“Lube, condoms – latex-free, that’s important, I have a minor latex allergy – and toys, mainly,” he told James.

James peaked over his shoulder, trying to see what all ‘toys’ Q had thought would be in use, but Q shut the bag quickly.

“No peeking.”

James backed off in surrender, deciding he’d just have to trust Q in this particular situation.

Q looked at him. “Okay, ground rules. I need something to call you, you need something to call me, and we need to develop our boundaries.”

James was about to tell Q he could call him whatever, but thought better of it. “Call me _James,_ if anything. ‘Bond’ and ‘007’ don’t need to become kinks for me.”

Q smiled. “Likewise, don’t call me _Q._ I…I’m sorry, but I’m not yet comfortable giving you my name.”

James shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me.”

“Then there’s the matter of what you _can_ call me,” Q continued, and then quickly started to look nervous. “I…you have a problem with male authority, I know that, and you dislike giving the honor of this title to anyone – hell, M has to _remind_ you to use it – but-…”

“You want me to call you _sir,”_ James interrupted.

Q gave a single, quick nod. “You called me it the other day on the comms, and I found I quite liked it.”

James’ lip twitched up in a cocky smirk. “Did I make you get hard in the middle of Q branch, _sir?”_

Q’s eyes darkened. “You wish. I’m sure you will be able to, after this, but I can control fantasies well enough.” Then he shook his head, as though physically trying to dispel the idea of fucking James, and plowed on. “Now, boundaries. That’s what you like, don’t like, _really_ don’t like, and of course, a safeword.”

James rocked on his heels. “Beats me. I didn’t even know I liked _this_ until my honeypot.”

Q nodded. “Alright, then we’ll just have to find it out. We’ll stick with a color system for now – green if you’re doing fine, yellow if you need me to slow down or back off, red if you want to stop. All colors will be obeyed without question, as they are considered to be the giving and revoking of consent, and this is going to follow the BDSM motto to the letter. Safe, sane, consensual.”

James felt a bit awkward about openly discussing this, which was new, because normally he could talk about sex all day long without flinching. But this wasn’t _flirting,_ it was…technical. Working out the kinks in being kinky.

“I’m going to go ahead and assume a couple of things are off the table,” Q said. “For instance, I really doubt you’ll like being tied down at all.”

James shook his head quickly. “No, definitely not.”

“So in that case, where I might have tied you during a scene, I’m simply going to tell you where to keep your hands. Then we’ll rely on your self-control to keep them there.” He clapped his hands together once and grinned at James. “Alright, are you ready to begin?”

James sighed. There was no going back, now, was there? He was about to submit to a man who couldn’t have been even _thirty._ He gave a quick nod.

“Good,” Q said. “By the chair, over there, kneel down, and put your hands behind your back.”

James hesitated for only a second, but under Q’s even stare, gave in, and obeyed. He got to his knees next to the chair, folded his arms behind him, and watched Q for the next instruction.

Q more or less ignored him for a couple of minutes, digging in his bag instead. “How do you feel about being blinded?”

James…really didn’t know. “Like a blindfold?”

“Yes.”

James considered it. “I don’t know. It’s temporary, so it should be fine. I’ll tell you if I need it off.”

Q nodded, then approached with an honest-to-God blindfold. Not just a strip of fabric, and actual eye-shaped blindfold. He slipped it onto James’ face, sending him into darkness.

James took a deep breath, adjusting, and tried to focus his other senses. He could hear Q breathing softly, and that was oddly comforting. What was _more_ comforting was when Q ran a hand through his hair, massaging lightly at his scalp.

Just as James was starting to lean into the touch, Q’s hand retreated, and he listened to the younger man’s footsteps as he retreated to the bag. Rustling, and sounds of things tapping against the coffee table, as he pulled out supplies.

After a while, he came back, and there was more noise, and James guessed Q must have knelt, because soon they were kissing.

James kissed him hungrily, but before he could get it deeper, Q pulled back, and there was another round of rustling as he presumably stood back up.

“Lean forward,” Q told him. “Onto the carpet, ass up. You can move your arms to brace yourself.”

James obeyed, changing his position, feeling a bit silly with his ass in the air. He felt hands running along his spine, a gentle touch, and then Q was pulling his pajama bottoms off.

He was exposed for the briefest of moments with no action, before he felt Q kissing along his back, hand cupping his ass. Q worked his way down his spine, to his ass, where he actually _licked_ across James’ hole.

James sucked in a breath in response.

Q took the noise as permission to continue and dove in, kissing and licking away at James, teasing him open. James buried his face in his arms to muffle the moan that it drew out.

Then there was a small _pop_ that indicated a lube bottle being opened, and soon, a lubed finger was sliding into James. He was barely given a second to adjust to it before it was sliding back out and then in again, and soon, he was being honestly _fucked_ on a single finger.

James groaned. “More,” he demanded, and was met with the unexpected: his ass actually being _smacked._

“When I’m ready,” Q told him.

That, oddly, went straight to James’ dick.

Q fucked him for a moment longer before finally adding another finger, and starting back to licking alongside his hand. The combined sensations made James keen, desperate for more.

Q also seemed to be getting impatient, because James had barely gotten used to two fingers when a third slipped in.

James was lost in the pleasure, enjoying being opened up by Q’s long, nimble fingers, but the sensation barely lasted before Q was withdrawing. James made a strangled noise, hips involuntarily backing up to try and keep Q in, but Q responded by grabbing his hip and holding him still. There was the wet sound of lube again, and James prepared for the fingers to be replaced by Q’s dick.

Instead, something else pressed at him. Something harder and colder than a dick, which made James immediately wary.

“What is…?”

“Shh,” Q interrupted, and slowly slid it in.

It was _wider_ than a dick, too, and it burned a bit going in, but James quickly adjusted, starting to realize that the slight pain usually meant he was in for a lot of pleasure later. Eventually, it slid home, nestling against his prostate, and he moaned at the feeling, clenching his fists against his arms and preparing to be fucked…

Only for Q to withdraw entirely. “Sit back up,” he ordered.

James stayed put. “Are you serious?”

“It’s a plug,” Q informed him. “It’s just there to keep you open while we play. I’ll take it out when I’m ready.”

James let out a small whine he’d deny till his dying day, and pulled himself back up to his knees. He realized that sitting completely on his own feet pushed the plug in deeper, so he held himself up instead.

Q was apparently not done, though, because he reached out, running a still-slick hand along James’ dick, holding his hips to keep him from bucking up into the touch. Just as James was enjoying it, something tight hit the base of his dick, and there was a small _click_ before Q’s hand withdrew.   
James took an embarrassingly long time to catch on. “A _cock ring_? Really?”

“Just making sure you take your time,” Q replied, and there was noise that suggested he was standing back up. Then there was rustling, and James realized Q was stripping.

God, he wished he could see that.

Hands touched his face, tipping his head back a bit, and then fingers trailed along his lips. Catching the hint, he opened his mouth, taking the fingers into it, and sucking them gently. After a few seconds, Q pulled them back, and something _else_ pressed to his mouth.

James didn’t even need an instruction, just took Q’s dick into his mouth, holding it there for a second, trying to remember what exactly to do. He had only ever done this particular action once before, and it hadn’t been very spectacular for either party. He’d been on the receiving end enough times, though, that he could guess at what to do.

Finally, he decided to wing it. He moved his tongue, massaging Q’s dick with it, and sucked gently on it. He shifted a bit, moving his head, trying to create a rhythm. He hollowed out his cheeks and slid as far onto the dick as he could, letting Q hit the back of his throat, and experimentally swallowed.

Q groaned, and James took that as a sign he was doing well.

He kept up the motions, sucking and bobbing and licking until finally, a hand threaded into his hair again and pulled him off.

James found that he – strangely enough – _missed_ the action, having actually enjoyed himself a bit. His tongue darted out across his lips, and he heard Q laugh softly.

“You actually _enjoy_ that,” Q observed. “Good to know. You’ll probably like this better, though.”

And then Q moved, and he heard the sound of plastic sliding across his coffee table, as Q picked something up. There was a _click_ , and then the plug inside James (which he had all but forgotten about) flared to life, starting to _vibrate._

James cried out at the feeling, mainly because the plug was still right on his prostate, causing the sensations to be almost unbearably pleasurable. He almost came after a mere few seconds, but the ring around his balls stopped him, pushing him back from the edge. He shifted, writhing a bit where he sat, trying to find some way to either shift the plug to get _more_ pleasure, or _less –_ at that point, he’d take either.

“You look good like that,” Q informed him. “A hair’s breadth from begging for it.” The hand in his hair began to pet gently. “You should try using your words. Ask nicely, and I might give you what I had planned next.”

“Please,” James gasped out immediately. “Please, whatever it is, give it to me.”

“Please…?” Q prompted.

“Sir,” James tacked on. “Please, _sir,_ fuck me.”

 “You want me in you?” Q asked, and James nodded quickly. “Very well. Lean back forward, onto your arms again.” James obeyed. “Good boy.”

Hearing Q say that in the context of actual sex was a thrill, and James shifted in response, suddenly aching for it.

The vibrations stopped, and a second later, the plug was being gently pulled from him, and something warmer and softer but still much, _much_ better replaced it.

Q didn’t even give him a second to adjust, just started moving, fucking into him slow and determined.

James groaned at the feeling, suddenly glad for the ring keeping him contained, because this would be over embarrassingly fast otherwise.

Q slowly sped up in fucking him, until finally, _finally,_ the pace turned fast and desperate, and a hand reached around, unlocking the cock ring and pulling it off. “Come,” Q ordered.

James didn’t need to be told twice.

He could feel Q finishing right behind him, but he couldn’t even begin to care, collapsing onto his arms on the floor of his living room.

He was only roused from the euphoria when he felt plastic nudging at his entrance again.

James groaned. “I can’t- no more-…”

The plug paused. “Give me a color,” Q told him.

James considered it. “…Green.”

The plug slid home. “Leave that in,” Q said. “Just until dinner is over.”

James made a sleepy little grunt in response. “Dinner?”

“Of course,” Q said, and pulled the blindfold off of James. “I’m hungry, so I’m going to cook.”

And then Q padded carefully out of the room.

James considered looking up to see what he looked like naked, but couldn’t really be assed to move. He rolled over onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes, and debated sleeping on the floor.

He must have drifted, because he was quickly awoken by a toe nudging at his side. He moved his arm, looking up to Q.

And, wow.

Q was _gorgeous._ A beautiful, lithe body, stark naked before him. James was in bliss.

And then he inhaled, and smelled the food Q was holding, and realized he was _starving._

“Up,” Q ordered. “Get back to your knees.”

James grumbled in response, but forced himself back up, watching Q as the small man sat in the lone chair James owned, setting the plate on his lap. “Next to me,” Q said, pointing at the space by his feet.

James shifted a bit so he was where Q wanted him.

Q proceeded to ignore him for a second, taking the first bite of his food, before picking up a piece in his fingers and holding it down to James.

James stared at it, weighing his options. He was hungry, yes, but this seemed…beyond sexually submissive. Intimate, almost. Literally eating out of someone else’s hands.

He looked up to Q, who was watching him calmly and expectantly.

He huffed out a breath through his nose, and leaned forward, taking the bite (a piece of chicken, as it turned out) into his mouth.

Q proceeded to take the next bite himself, before handing another to James.

So on and so forth, they cleared the plate, going back and forth taking bites.

At the end, Q took the plate back into the kitchen, set it in the sink, and returned to James’ side.

“Now,” Q said. “I’m going to admit, that scene was a bit all over the place. I had a plan, but honestly, watching you get off was worth breaking it.”

James snorted. “I honestly wouldn’t have known any better,” he confessed.

“Okay, wrap-up time,” Q said. “Do you want the plug out?”

James hesitated.   
“It’s okay to say no,” Q told him. “It’s going to be slightly uncomfortable tomorrow if we don’t take it out, but sometimes that’s nice. Still being able to feel it.”

James swallowed his pride. “I’ll leave it.”

Q’s smile was blinding, and completely worth it. “Good. Two more questions, and I’ll let you get some sleep. First, is there anything you did not like?”

James shook his head. “No, I…enjoyed all of it, actually.”

“Last question, then, and perhaps the most important,” Q looked a bit nervous. “Do you want me to stay the night?”

James rarely had people in his place, and flat-out _never_ had people _stay._

“…Yes,” James said. “Please.”

Q nodded. “Alright. Come on, then, let’s get to bed.”

Q extended a hand, but James ignored it, picking himself off the ground on shaky legs and walking toward his room…

…Only to collapse against the doorframe of the bedroom, the sensations of the plug shifting inside him overstimulating him.

Q didn’t hesitate, just tucked under his arm and more or less dragged him to the bed, pushing him back into the mattress. “Sleep,” Q told him. “And remember, I owe you breakfast.”

James would have laughed, but he had already drifted off.

 

 

When James woke, he was by himself.

Which was for the best, really, because with the soreness of the day before and the feeling of an actual _butt plug_ inside him, he was hit with a rolling freight train of shame.

He rolled over, looking to where Q _should_ have been, to see a scrap of paper on the pillow.

He picked it up.

 _Rain check on breakfast,_ it read. _Got called in; new development may turn to new job for you. Come in to HQ when ready. Feel free to do what you want with the plug._

  1. _I recommend a shower for the soreness. – Q_



James sighed heavily, feeling even worse at being left a note like he was Q’s worried girlfriend.

He shifted his hips, reaching behind himself to ease the plug out. It caught on the way out, his ass too dry now to willingly allow the slight friction, but he grit his teeth and made it come out.

Immediately, he hopped out of bed, heading to the shower (stumbling along the way, because he was still _very_ sore and overstimulated).

The shame and self-hate did not go away under the hot water, but it did ease, giving way to a cold, irritated feeling, and a strange energy buzzing under his skin.

He dressed quickly and efficiently, and headed off to work, hoping that no one could tell by looking at him how much he _hated_ himself today.

Or, more importantly, _why._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter deals a lot with Bond's first experience with subdrop.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things Bond needs: snuggles  
> Things Bond receives: struggles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooo boy this one took awhile  
> christmas had me working 40 hour weeks for a bit there so I was slammed too much to write, and then I just...didn't feel like it, honestly  
> now, though! we're getting back into it  
> now everyone pray for Bond bc he needs it

James headed into the MI6 office, and decided to minimize his interactions with others by skipping straight to the people capable of assigning him jobs. Q had mentioned in his note a possible job, so logic would dictate he go to Q branch…but he really didn’t want to do that. Instead, he headed to M’s office, catching Moneypenny.

“Bond,” she greeted. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“You keep sending me to Q instead,” James pointed out.

“That we do,” she said. “Which begs the question – why are you up here, and not down there?”

“Can no one else in the fucking building give me an assignment anymore?” James spat before he could help himself. He regretted it quickly, when Moneypenny’s eyebrow shot up.

“You took one job from Q,” she said. “And now we’re asking you to take another. That’s a grand total of _two_. If that’s a big number to you, we’ll have to reconsider your exam scores for maths.” She folded her arms, eyeing him. “If you’ve got something against Q, tell me now, so I can deal with it. I’m not letting you get away with being petty.”

“I’ve got nothing against Q,” James assured her. “I’ve just been looking forward to the downtime I keep getting pulled out of.”

Wrong thing to say – Eve was instantly suspicious, if she hadn’t already been. She narrowed her eyes at him, scrutinizing him. “You hate ‘downtime.’ You’re always complaining when we ground you.”

“I hate being on _mandatory_ downtime,” James tried to save. “Choosing not to work is fine.”

“Mmhm,” Eve hummed, skeptically. “That’s why you have roughly a _year_ of wasted vacation time.”

“I-…” James started to defend himself, then paused. “A year? Seriously?”

“Yep,” Eve confirmed. “It’s all gone by now. They only let you stack so much. You still have…around six months, I think. I don’t know where they cut it off. It’s not a policy, you’re they only one they’ve ever had to restrict.”

James was floored by this, to the degree that he forgot, momentarily, what he was arguing about.

A bad thing to happen, because that gave Eve time to strike. “So, if you’re done with excuses, either tell me what the problem is, or go see Q and deal with it like a man.”

Which, the problem with that particular wording, was that was directly tied to the massive wave of insecurities and stress that Bond felt pressing on him at the moment, and before he could steel himself against a visible reaction, he flinched.

Moneypenny went from teasing to genuinely concerned in a fraction of a second, at that. “What is it? Bond, you’ve thrown your usual suave nature out the window. I need to know what happened if I’m going to fix it.”   
James did not want to get into it, so he did what he did best: deflected. “You think I’m suave, huh?”

Eve didn’t take the bait (at least, not to the degree James had hoped). “Not in the slightest, but you try. And you’re not trying now.”

James rubbed at the bridge of his nose, irritated that he could get away with being in a bad mood for _one day_ without someone pressuring him for details. Normally, with Eve, he’d have spit it out by now – she was actually rather helpful, for all her teasing. This, however, wasn’t something he’d tell her. Even if he could explain it, which he couldn’t. All he knew was that any time he let the memory of the day before hit him, he felt a roll of shame and self-hatred mow him over, and he couldn’t shake it no matter what he told himself. Distantly, he knew he’d enjoyed it, and that it had been what he wanted, and that he wouldn’t have changed anything. However, the _feeling_ it was wrong wouldn’t go away.

He didn’t know where to even look for answers to this.

... _Unless…  
_ James straightened suddenly. “You know what, I think I just solved it, myself. I’ll report to Q, so quit worrying.”

Eve looked skeptical, but let him go, and James headed straight down to Q branch.

He needed a favor.

 

 

Q didn’t look up when James came into Q branch, and for once, neither did his minions. If anything, that made James feel even worse – while he knew logically that they just didn’t care he was there or hadn’t noticed, he _felt_ like they all _knew_ and were avoiding looking at him. He fought to keep his stride even and his head up, until he reached Q’s desk.

Q’s fingers stuttered over his keyboard for a fraction of a second when James’ shadow fell over him, the only signal he’d noticed James’ presence at all.

 _Alright, then,_ Bond figured. _I guess I’ll have to say something, first._

“I need you to stop tracking my phone for a bit.”

 _That_ got Q’s attention. “You what?” He looked up, eyes wide and face indignant. “I’m not letting you vanish off the radar. Especially not when I have a job, right here-…” he gestured to a folder on his desk, “to assign you. If anything, I’ll need to up the priority of your tracking.”

“I don’t care about the GPS,” James said. “I mean my texts and calls.”

Q blinked. “What on Earth are you planning, Bond?”

James’ face twitched. “Don’t worry about it. Give me an hour, that’s all I need.”

Q narrowed his eyes. “Why should I trust you won’t cause infinite damage in that hour?”

James huffed. “All I’m doing is damage control. If it makes you feel better, I’m only talking to one person.”

Q looked even _more_ suspicious, if possible. “Who?” Then he shook his head, turning to the computer before him. “Alright, here’s the deal. Give me the number and I’ll blacklist it for an hour. That’ll keep the records from showing up or storing.”

James listed the number he needed immediately, ignoring the recognition that dawned on Q’s face as he finished the sequence.

“Should I be concerned?” Q asked, as he hovered over the ‘enter’ key to submit the blacklist.

“I don’t know,” James replied honestly. “But I just booked up my next hour. I’ll come back for that folder when I’m done.”

Q looked ready to argue, but ended up just sighing and hitting the button. The blacklist notice popped up on the screen, and confident in his privacy, James booked it out of Q branch.

Immediately out of the doors, he pulled out his phone, and sent the first text.

 

[TO CANDY]

_Update: I’m now heavily reconsidering the belief that was a good idea._

 

He got a reply almost instantly.

_-yikes. that bad?_

_Not at the time._

_-ooooh. u got the post coital hatin urself vibes?_

_Is that a thing?_

_-yea boy! hold on ima call you_

The second Candy’s contact appeared, he answered the call. “I’d like a full explanation of what’s going on, because I have no idea.”

Her laughter came through the line, which was…oddly soothing. “Yeah, I caught that. You’re so lucky I work from home and can call you any time to explain this stuff. Consider me your BDSM senpai.”

Bond had a loose knowledge of many languages, so he carefully corrected, “You mean sensei?”

Candy snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re a weeb, too?”

“I don’t think so?” he had no idea what that even meant.

She laughed again. “Okay, we’ll discuss that shit later. For now: sub drop.”

James pursed his lips. “What’s that?”

“Basically – if you do a scene, and you don’t come out of it right, whether you got too hyped or aftercare wasn’t good or you just got in the wrong headspace, your endorphins crash. Puts you in a bitch of a bad mood and makes you feel pretty gross.”

James wanted to argue that he _was_ ‘pretty gross,’ it wasn’t an endorphins thing, but this particular spell of self-hate didn’t quite align with his usual brand, so he let it go. “How do you make it _stop?”_

“A lot of things can help, but mostly you just wait it out,” Candy informed him. “You can ease it off with, like…chocolate. Or exercise, if you’d rather do that? But not _hard_ exercise. Just, like, a jog.” After a slight pause, she added, in a sly tone, “Or, if you can get your new man into it, cuddling helps?”

James stiffened. “We’re not like that.”

She sighed. “Figures. You’re really not redeeming the ‘asshole’ image you painted of him. Who teases a guy about his kinks, fucks him, and doesn’t even bring him down or take him to dinner? Rude ass.”

James felt torn as to whether he should agree or defend Q – the latter being a weird compulsion, honestly – so he just changed the subject to be back on track. “So, on my own. Spend some time in the gym. Anything else I should look into?”

“This is gonna sound dumb, but, try vitamins,” she told him. “They’re not like, an instant cure, when you’ve already dropped, but they can help prevent them? Fish oil is a good one, I’ve heard? Basically, if you keep yourself pupped with vitamin D and shit, you can curve endorphins and stuff before a scene even happens, so you don’t get hit so hard after. Don’t ask me the science, I’m a dropout.”

Taking the potential change in subject, James asked, “High school or college?”

“Please,” she said. “High school. Got a nice GED and a shitty waitress job that kept me alive until I put out my first book.”  
“You’re an author?”

“I write shit romance novels,” she told him. “Under a pseudonym, so don’t think you’re gonna find me! Just kidding. Marylee Cuno. Read them, and give me your opinion, because I’m pretty sure all my reviewers are just trying to suck me off at this point. All I get are the same ones on repeat. I need a new audience.”

“I’m not a big reader,” James started, but instantly felt guilty for dodging it. She was, in some way or another, a fast friend, and he didn’t have many of those. “But I’ll look into it.”

“Awesome. Seriously, though, let me know if you hate it, because I can never tell what’s good. I just write what I would wanna read, and I don’t know how many people have the taste of a 35-year-old bisexual kinkster.” Before she could add anything to that, she let out a strangled noise, and told him, “I think my computer just crashed. I’m gonna see if it saved my drafts, and cry if it didn’t. You good?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m gonna head to the gym now and see if I can’t fix myself a bit. I owe you.”

“Damn right,” she said, and hung up.

Feeling a tiny bit better, and still having about half an hour left in his allocated ‘safe period,’ he headed to the MI6 exercise room to run off whatever bullshit chemicals were churning in his brain.

The only question, though – for a top-ranked MI6 agent, what qualified as ‘light exercise’?

 

 

Popping earbuds in before exercising had not been a good idea.

Mainly because Bond only had a collection of rather high-energy, slightly angry sounding songs saved to his playlist, because he only ever listened to it while working out.

This meant that it was very easy to get caught up in the rhythm of the songs and exert himself a bit too much, which lead to him going from a light jog on a treadmill to beating the ever-loving _shit_ out of a punching dummy.

He chose the dummy instead of the bag because he didn’t want sheer force punches, he wanted to work on precise shots – which was a roundabout way of saying he wanted the catharsis of punching a weighted dummy in the nose a bunch.

Unfortunately, he got so caught up in doing that, he paid exactly zero attention to the time, which brought him to this situation:

He was sending punch after punch into the dummy, hitting its plastisol jawline and stomach, when a shadow fell into his peripheral vision and he turned to see who approached him-…

…And quickly shut off his music, popping his earbuds out. “You’re out of Q branch,” he observed.

“It’s been precisely…” Q checked his watch. “98 minutes since you were in front of my desk. That, if you have forgotten, is more than the promised 60.”

Bond _could_ have apologized, and let the subject drop…but when did he ever? “I never said I’d be back in an hour. I said I needed an hour, and that I’d be back later. Those are separate statements.”

Q narrowed his eyes at him, and Bond could almost pretend, for a moment, that the bickering was the same as always, and that the day before had not happened at all.

Which, of course, meant Q had to ruin it.

“If I made you uncomfortable,” Q began, oddly soft, but Bond cut him off quickly.

“You didn’t,” he said, which was not necessarily a lie. Q didn’t do anything – if Candy’s theory was right, this was all in Bond’s head.

“You’re acting rather tense,” Q pointed out. “And Moneypenny claims you were short with her to a degree even outside your usual. I can only assume it’s tied to my actions.”

“Or,” Bond snapped, “Maybe I’m just in a bad mood. It happens.”

“And when a ‘bad mood’ follows something that is supposed to be cathartic, but risks putting someone in a bad headspace, assuming the events are tied is logical.”

Bond huffed. “Alright, what do you want me to say?” He resisted the urge to fold his arms or anything similar, instead pouring full double-o agent body language training into holding himself in a way that exuded the necessary bravado to cover how _shitty_ he felt. “I woke up today in the mood to empty a couple of clips in anyone who looked twice and I haven’t shaken it. I’m working on it.” He waved at the dummy in front of him. “So in less you’d like to volunteer, I’m gonna keep doing that.”

Q watched him for a moment. “Bond, have you ever heard of a drop?”

Bond tensed. “Yes.”

“When?”

No point in lying, now. “Roughly 98 minutes ago.”

The realization slowly donned on Q’s face. “You researched. You knew what was happening.” Bond waited for him to say something damning, but instead, he said something entirely unexpected. “…Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bond blinked. “What?”

Q sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve done – you’ve had, to my knowledge, two scenes prior to yesterday, and both were light. I should’ve approached it far better, especially after the fact, and I didn’t. If I screwed it up, then you should’ve brought it to me, so I could help.”

Bond didn’t really know how to feel about that. Touched that Q was willing to fix what he admitted he may have caused? Irritated that it wasn’t _entirely_ his brain’s fault for this? Pissed that Q wouldn’t drop it?

He was saved by deciding by Q shaking his head, shifting the messenger bag on his shoulder. Bond’s eyes snapped to it, because he knew that was where Q kept his laptop, and if he had that, then he was probably going somewhere. Like home.

Q followed his gaze and then, silently, opened the bag and retrieved the file from earlier. “I was going to bring this down to you, and walking through this building with a file is basically announcing that I’m having to track you down. And while you do have a reputation for being difficult, I doubted you’d enjoy the speculation of why you’d be avoiding collecting this yourself.”

Bond wanted to argue that people have run their mouths about worse, and that this was something he could have easily explained away, but chose to shut up and just accept the file instead. He flipped it open, thumbing through the pages, past classified warnings and other such nonsense to get to the actual core debrief.

“You’re going to be going undercover with Moneypenny,” Q explained, while Bond looked at the details. “The two of you are going to a gala that presents itself as a fundraiser event for a tech company. It’s a massive front, of course. We’re rather certain that something shady is going on, because we have about nine pages of detailed information on every person scheduled to attend in the files recovered from the hard drive you collected. While a guest list isn’t unusual, one with summaries of all personal ties each guest has _is,_ and we need to be on alert.”

Bond was going to make a comment about being married to Moneypenny for a day, because he always liked making fun of her when she had to put up with him like that, when he noticed a couple of things about his character profile.

Mainly: his name was his _actual_ name, and Moneypenny’s alias was listed as not his wife, but his _sister._

“This is different,” he commented.

“The information we’re getting was collected from Tyler Norton. His tech company was the one being fundraised for. We don’t know if he mentioned you at all, but we’ve been working to make sure people know you knew him.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that counter-intuitive to espionage?”

“Not if we’re using it to get you in,” Q told him. “The fundraiser is doubling as a memorial service, and a meet-the-new-CEO sort of thing. We leaked rumors and instilled false evidence on Norton’s systems to reveal details about you – or, to be precise, your alias – as his well-hidden secret boyfriend.”

“I see,” Bond murmured. “So I got a sympathy invitation?”

“Exactly,” Q said. “The folder holds all the information we have on Norton, so you can pretend like you knew him for more than an hour or so if you’re asked about him. As far as his personality, you’ll have to wing it, but I doubt many people will bother having long conversations with you. Rich businessmen and their trophy wives are not likely to attempt to get to know the paramour of their deceased and semi-closeted gay coworker.”

“Eve and I don’t look alike,” Bond pointed out. “Adopted?”

“Both of you,” Q confirmed. “Details of the process are in there, but only the relevant ones. Anything else you can get creative with.”

“Why are so many details already solid?” Bond asked. “Normally most of my cover stories are improvised.”

“Like I said, they had _pages_ of intelligence on the other guests,” Q said. “I had to establish a great deal of false public records for them to find.”

“Last question,” Bond said. “Eve only ever agrees to go undercover with me if it means she’s needed to do something technical. So what’s she there for?”

Q smiled. “The most delicate, technical part of any mission,” he said. “She’s there to be moral support.”

Bond decided there, in that moment, that he hated everyone he worked with.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (trips over a draft 6 months late) fUCK

Q fucked off pretty much immediately after that, blessedly seeming to forget what he and Bond had been speaking about when he first entered the gym, which left Bond free to return to his workout. Afterward, he felt a lot better, so he took the opportunity to read the whole file.

A lot of the details were there, yes, just as Bond had pointed out – but Q must have kept in mind Bond’s fondness for saying “fuck it” and making something up instead, because there was a lot of wiggle room. Tiny details that weren’t recorded were the obvious examples, but Q had also given him room to throw out information – for instance, he’d left a false trail of documents suggesting that post-adoption, Bond’s family had moved around a lot, which could lead to childhood documents being lost or having mistakes. Pretty much every detail of the file had something there that would allow it to be modified. 

Bond started to be pleased by it, but then it occurred to him that this was the easiest way for Q to maintain control of the situation – even if Bond decided to just make some shit up, Q’s alias would hold. Bond couldn’t blow it without an  _ intentional  _ reveal, which he didn’t plan on. Not that Bond typically blew espionage situations wide open, but he thrived on improvisation and disarming an enemy, both of which were typically helped by him scraping any alias given when it got down to the wire. Not being able to do that in a way that isn’t accounted for was a guarantee that he’d have to play by the book – Q was locking him down the way M and Moneypenny and every other superior in his history had tried to do. 

Bond rolled his eyes, suddenly not really interested in doing anything else ‘leisurely,’ so he headed up to Moneypenny’s office to see her about the details of when they’d be leaving and whatnot. 

He didn’t bother alerting anyone to where he was going so they could pass the message on – just strolled through the lobby of the main offices into Moneypenny’s, dropping down into one of the chairs in front of her desk before she even bothered to look up. 

“Bond,” she greeted, giving him an unimpressed stare. “You’ve been causing a stir.”

Bond raised an eyebrow in response. “How so?”

“You’ve been bitchy,” Eve informed him, tone flat. “You yelled at everyone in Q branch at one point, and several employees reported you were short with Q – and don’t think I didn’t catch that he had to track you down. You’re lucky I’m not too concerned with what happened when he found you, or I’d report the looping.” 

“The what?” Bond asked, suddenly lost.

Eve looked slightly surprised. “He…didn’t tell you? He looped the cameras on the lower floors. No one knows where you two were.”

Bond stared, not even bothering to hide his own incredulous expression. “Q is a stickler for rules. Why would he compromise his own security?”

“Gee, I wonder,” she muttered. When Bond simply kept staring, she sighed heavily. “Have you noticed that Q has one single priority above MI6? Something that he repeatedly compromises his own security for?” 

Bond shrugged. 

Eve groaned. “How do we hire  _ you  _ for espionage? Honestly, Bond. You bat your eyelashes and he’d drop every firewall he has.” 

Bond bit down on an instinctive denial, because really, when he thought about it, that was true – Q was always willing to help him when he threw out an alias or shut off his trackers or did anything similarly outside protocol. And, if he really did loop the cameras, it very well could have been to save his own reputation – but it  _ also  _ could have been to save Bond’s. 

He felt like he should make a joke, diffuse the tension a little and make it seem like this was something he already knew, but his mouth simply refused to move. 

Eve watched him for a moment, seeming to catch his internal struggle, because she reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a file much like his own, and sat it on her desk. “So. About this undercover op.” 

Instantly, they were back in job mode, and two hours later James left the office with instructions to report to Q branch for equipment the next day, and medical any time before that for pre-mission checks, and then they’d leave for San Francisco. 

Not really in the mood for more wallowing, he headed directly to the medical branch. 

He entered the main area of the med ward – effectively a lobby, most of the time, which served to filter everyone into specific rooms to cater to their needs, so they didn’t have a dozen agents bleeding out in the same place they have trackers installed – to see Dr. Maysa Shaikh, a woman whose white coat and hijab always remained suspiciously clean, arguing in clipped tones with Agent 009. 

Bond had never been particularly fond of any of the other double-0 agents, but 009 rubbed him the wrong way literally every time they spoke. Probably because 009  _ clearly  _ didn’t like  _ him,  _ and had no qualms about showing it. Definitely not because Q seemed to like him, and that like was obviously mutual, and Q was always telling Bond things like “don’t touch that, that’s 009’s.” 

_ Definitely  _ not that.

(God, he was  _ hopeless _ .) 

Beyond Bond’s dislike of the other agent, he happened to be very fond of Dr. Shaikh, who was always calm and no-nonsense and managed to look right past his flirting and sarcasm and figure out exactly what he  _ wasn’t  _ saying, making her evaluations of him always to-the-point and accurate, while also refusing to ground him just to be petty like some doctors tended to. She did most of his psych evals, telling him in no uncertain terms that it was because he’d run every  _ actual  _ psychologist in MI6 off and she happened to have just enough training in psychotherapy to make do. She  _ also  _ told him that she was the reason he was able to get away with never taking an actual day off, because she made sure to tell everyone who would listen that working excessively was Bond’s fucked-up coping method and she was content to let him run himself into an early grave if it meant he (and, by extension, everyone he deals with) would stay sane. 

He might be a little in love with her.

He was pretty sure he told her that, once, while half-high on pain meds, and she’d given him a flat stare and informed him she was a rampant lesbian. 

_ C’est la vie.   _

Regardless, Bond was ready to fight someone still, and his favorite person in the med department and  _ least  _ favorite double-0 were arguing, and he was fully prepared to jump in.

He should  _ probably  _ know what he was arguing about, though, first, so he just took a moment to eavesdrop. 

“I do not care what you think is important,” Dr. Shaikh was saying, her lightly accented voice stern, making it clear she did not intend to budge. “I am not going to be forced to clear you. You are to take your days, you are to recover, and I will clear you for duty when you are  _ ready  _ and not a single moment sooner. Am I clear?”

“I’m ready  _ now,”  _ 009 replied, just as stubborn. “A week is  _ excessive _ recovery time. If I were 007-…”

“ _ If  _ you were 007, you would have been given a week of mandatory recovery time,  _ and  _ a house arrest anklet to make sure you took it. Be grateful you are not 007.” She fixed him with a glare. “You were poisoned, 009. Your heart rate needs to remain under 140 until we are certain that the remaining traces of toxins have completely filtered out. They’re only neutralized, for now, and we don’t know what would re-activate them. So  _ rest,  _ or you will likely die, and then I will have to do a thousand tests on a new double-0, and I already can’t stand the lot of you I have to deal with now.” 

“I’m hurt, doc,” Bond spoke up, and watched her eyes snap to him, cold and appraising, while 009 turned a more passionately hateful look his way. “Ah. Good to know you both still think I’m wonderful.”

“007,” Dr. Shaikh drawled carefully. “You are here for pre-mission checks, yes?” 

009 made a strangled noise. “You  _ just  _ got back from a mission. You can’t be done with mandatory downtime already.”

“Emergency call-in,” Bond replied, not bothering to hide how smug he was that he got back-to-back missions while others were stuck at home. “An op I’d already set up needed to be run.” 

009 rolled his eyes. “One of these days, Bond, I swear-…”

“Chapman,” Dr. Shaikh warned, and Bond filed 009’s last name away for future use. “Get out of the medical ward unless you need medical attention, or you will  _ end up  _ needing it.”

009, or ‘Chapman,’ set his jaw, nodding once and murmuring a “yes, ma’am,” before stalking off. Bond ignored the glare sent his way and casually sidestepped a shoulder check. The latter he usually would have simply taken, letting the person humiliate themselves by running into someone who was effectively a brick wall, but 009 was built like a tank and Bond was pretty sure they were  _ not  _ evenly matched in raw physical prowess. 

(Bond was quick, though, and new a myriad of techniques, so he could still take 009 in a fight. Not that he intended to, but he pretty habitually planned out how to take down any person he ever made eye-contact with, even if unnecessary.) 

Dr. Shaikh took deep, long breaths,  _ visibly  _ talking herself down from the edge of physical violence, before turning to Bond. “I will do your checks. I was informed you were in a  _ mood _ earlier, and I would rather not hear by subordinates complaining for two weeks about you being obstinate.” 

Bond could point out that he was no longer in a  _ terrible _ mood, or that the other staff typically complained about him anyway, but he chose to simply say “Appreciated, ma’am,” and follow her to an exam room. She led him without looking back, simply expecting him to follow closely and quietly, demanding deference without a word. In one of his psych evals, she had chosen to read out to him every note ever left in his profile by a psychologist. When she had told him “There are several notes referencing the fact that you do not respect any form of authority,” he’d replied with a casual  _ “I respect yours,”  _ to which she’d granted him the first  _ smile  _ of hers he’d ever seen. 

(Ruined, of course, by her responding “That’s likely due to your heavy  _ Don Juan  _ complex regarding dramatization of female-oriented relationships. You’re more likely to respond to a female than a male, regardless of scenario.” Still, the moment had been there.) 

Bond sometimes wondered if he could ever get Dr. Shaikh to treat him with the same faux-friendship Moneypenny did, rather than a rarely-loosened professional regard. It was usually in the same vein as thoughts like  _ what do I do when I’m not working?  _ and  _ how do people just have friends/lovers that they keep and don’t accidentally kill?  _ In short: thoughts he drowns in two fingers of whiskey and a pretty redhead. 

(It’s not always whiskey, and it’s not always a redhead, but it’s always the same formula. Get deep, get drunk, get naked.) 

Dr. Shaikh stopped, then, abruptly, pointing to a chair in the center of a room that was surrounded on all walls by various unidentifiable machines, and ordering “Sit.”

Bond did so, straightening his legs out in front of him, folding his hands together in his lap, and hunching forward, watching the doctor carefully.

She met his gaze evenly as she settled into her own chair, in front of him, gracefully folding her legs together. 

Typically, Bond would have expected her to pull out lab equipment, and do the medical checks first – if anything, she’d just ask the psych eval questions while prodding him, seemingly taking a sadistic joy in getting him to stumble over an answer with a particularly vicious jab. The fact that she  _ wasn’t  _ doing that was…foreboding. 

“I want to talk about your last two missions,” she said, and Bond tried not to tense. 

“I already debriefed for those,” he replied, his voice carefully neutral. 

She smiled, and he knew she’d seen right through him.  _ Damn.  _ “Your ‘debriefs’ were a bit…lacking. I have about two pages of ranting about your insubordination for every  _ sentence  _ of actual information.” She folded her hands, resting her chin on them. “So I’m stepping in, and we’re running through them again. They appear to have affected you, and I would like to make sure the effects are  _ positive,  _ if anything.” 

“I’m not-…”  _ affected,  _ he started to say, but Dr. Shaikh’s stare turned hard, and he caught the lie in the middle. He tipped his head back and let out a sigh, before admitting, “It wasn’t my usual type, no. It’s a bit weird. Especially since typically, no one pays any attention to my lesser missions, but this one  _ everyone  _ seems to care about.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Bond, no one was privy to the monitoring of this mission except the typical staff, and even that was limited all the way down to Q himself during the more private parts, at his instance.”

_ That  _ was news. Bond blinked at her. “He what?”

She paused, sitting up a bit straighter. “I assumed you knew. In fact, we all assumed it was  _ your  _ request, and he was just passing it on.” 

“I didn’t even think about people watching during the mission,” Bond confessed. “I just wanted to do it and get done. I worried about what people saw or thought after I was already on the plane headed back.” Then, not giving her time to latch onto his admittance that he’d worried, he pushed: “If no one saw the mission, then why do people keep fucking  _ staring  _ at me?”

Dr. Shaikh watched him evenly for a moment. “An actual psychiatrist would likely push for why you assume people are watching you, and prod for possible social anxiety.” Bond opened his mouth to reply, but she held up a hand, warning him off. “I’m not going to do that. As far as I’m concerned, it’d be gaslighting. You  _ are  _ being watched, and people  _ are  _ curious.” She sat forward again, leveling him with a heavy look. “When I said ‘at his insistence,’ I phrased it deliberately. Q would not let anyone argue. It is rumored – a rumor I would not doubt the validity of for a second – that he argued directly with M to be your  _ only  _ handler for this mission. I was part of the monitoring team, originally. Norton went to buy you a drink, and my feed cut. I had nearly raised an alert when Q contacted the entire team to inform us he was taking over the remaining portion of the mission.”

Bond sat back, floored. “He…You didn’t see  _ anything,  _ after that?” 

“I did not,” she confirmed. “Which is why this was necessary. Something clearly happened on that mission that bothers you, and both you and Q are tight-lipped as to what it was. I need to ensure that his hijacking of the monitoring did not compromise our best agent.”

Bond cracked a smile that felt weak even to him. “Best agent?”

“I don’t have time for your ego, Bond,” Dr. Shaikh told him. “Nor do I have time to pretend you are less than our best asset. Without that going for you, we wouldn’t try half as hard to keep up with your bullshit.” 

“At least you’re honest,” Bond murmured.

“You can count on it,” she replied easily. “But you’re deflecting. I asked a question, and I expect an answer. I’m going to be honest – there are few things I would like to hear  _ less  _ about than your sex life, but I have to ask, so I’m going to stick to a low-detail question.” She watched him, face stonily serious. “007. Bond. Did anything happen on your last two missions that compromised you in any way? Please answer honestly. If Q blocked you from monitoring, he blocked all protections of you in place except those he deemed necessary, and we need to make sure he didn’t make any poor judgement calls.”

_ ‘Or deliberately malicious choices’  _ was an unspoken addendum, but Bond heard it nonetheless. He frowned, and told her simply, “I’m fine. The mission was weird to me, because it was done a bit different then how I’d typically do things. And no, I’m not elaborating. But I was fine the whole time, and I never felt I was in any danger or worried in any way that I could get out if I needed to – or even just wanted to. Hell, Q offered to pull me at one point, when I first realized it wasn’t going the way I’d planned, but I insisted on staying, and I don’t regret that.” He looked around, watching for any monitoring devices, and spotting no obvious ones, he added: “Off the record, by the way?” When she nodded, he continued, “The missions aren’t what got me pissed off. Q and I haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye for a while now, but I keep having to report to him, and going at his throat isn’t going to do anything for me. So I’m just trying to figure out what to do with myself so I  _ don’t  _ try and strangle him.” It wasn’t the exact truth, but she seemed to accept it, so he didn’t correct his wording. 

“Good to know,” she told him. “I’ll keep an eye on you from here on, and step in if you seem to reach a point of distress that I’m required to intervene in, but other than that, your domestic disputes are your business.” Bond was about to ask what  _ that  _ meant, but didn’t have time, before she got up and picked up a blood pressure cuff, and he knew the time for talking beyond basic medical questions was over. 

Oh well. Bond was a spy for a reason - he could find out if he really wanted to.

He’d look into it later.

Right now, he needed to make sure Dr. Shaikh didn’t kill him, which meant focusing on following her instructions. 

By the time he left medical, though, he’d pretty much forgotten her  _ domestic disputes  _ comment. 

For a world-renowned spy, Bond could be slightly obtuse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bother me @spicyreyes on tumblr im trying to get people over there to remind me to work on all my old abandoned drafts bc im drowning in them


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> porn happens here  
> i wrote it in a seperate document and cut it in bc i didnt want filth all in my google docs files

Bond didn’t really feel up to heading back to his apartment after leaving medical, so he decided to simply bite the bullet and head up to Q branch. 

For once, when he entered, no one looked up - instead, it seemed like everyone was purposely avoiding looking at him, which left him wondering if perhaps he’d frightened them with all his snapping. 

Q, as per usual, ignored him completely when he entered the office, fingers tapping furiously across his keyboard. 

“I’m pretty sure you don’t have half as much work as you act like you do,” Bond said, stopping in front of the desk. “At least not on the computer.”

“I’m writing an email,” Q told him, eyes still glued to his screen. “009 apparently decided to pull a Bond a bit ago and overwork himself in the gym. He broke open a punching bag.”

Bond took a moment to be pleased that he’d pissed off the other agent that much. “And that’s your problem…?”

“It’s not,” Q said, easily. “I’m proposing to Moneypenny that I redesign some of the training equipment. We could probably make the gym far more cathartic for people if we put a few punching dummies down there with your face on them.”

Bond snorted. “I can think of a few people who’d want a go at those.”

“I think I prefer the live one,” Q said, finally looking up at Bond. “Unless, of course, the dummies come with the capability to speak. Oh, now there’s an idea.”

Bond rolled his eyes, snapping his fingers at Q when the man went to turn back to his screen. “You can fantasize about agents beating my face in later. I’m here for my mission equipment.”

“Oh.” Q pushed his chair out, standing up and walking to the other end of the room, where one of his tables of assorted nonsense stood. “I didn’t expect you to come by for that until tomorrow.”

“Why else would I be down here?”

There was a pause, then Q turned around, holding a box. 

A very small box.

“Here you go,” Q said, passing it over. “Your equipment.”

Bond frowned, popping the lid off the box, and then blinking down at the contents.

It was a box of thumbtacks. 

After a second, the joke clicked: he remembered Q’s threat during the honeypot, that he’d be on a mission with nothing else but those if he threw away his alias. 

“I technically already had a mission after that,” Bond pointed out. “The assassination?”

“No one would believe he was taken out for business reasons if he was done in by a thumbtack.” Q reached under his desk, pulling out a briefcase. “This mission should be easier to manage with them. If not, I suppose I can part with this, as well.”

He slid the case over the desk, and then popped it open, revealing a few small items. Q began picking them out in turn, explaining them.

“The signet ring contains a poisoned needle - push the gemstone down to release it or retract it. The nail polish is, of course, the same as the honeypot. It detects poisons as well as drugs, so I felt it would be useful again. The watch is built to resemble a private prototype from Norton’s computer, which should lend credit to your alias with anyone who cares to recognize it. It has a button on the side to reset the time - all the hands will go directly to twelve. Hit that button when you’re ready to leave. It’ll tell us you’re on the way.”

“Leaving at midnight,” Bond mused. “I’m Cinderella, then?”

“God wishes,” Q said. “Years of petty labor would have humbled you a little.” 

“Me? Never.” Bond picked up the last item, which was inside a small box. Popping it open, he found a remarkably tiny pistol. “...You have to be kidding.”

“I’m not,” Q chirped, entirely too pleased with himself. “You can’t have a weapon in the building, and they have metal detectors and scanners that will catch a normal gun. This one was made specifically to go undetected, and trying to make it full size would have been another thing to worry about giving you away.”

Bond knew that Q was never one to be daunted by a challenge, which meant he’d specifically chosen the easy route of making a tiny gun for the amusement factor of seeing Bond fire it.

His glare met Q’s undaunted amusement, both holding out until Bond finally sighed and put the gun back down, accepting his fate.

“Very good,” Q said. “Now, you’re not actually leaving until around noon tomorrow, so you’re officially out of things to do. Go home and rest, Bond.”

A very, very bad idea occurred to Bond then, and he looked back up at Q, lips quirking into a smirk. “Do I have to?”

Q’s stare got ever so slightly more intense, and Bond knew his message was received. “Well, I for one am going,” he said. “So if you stay here, I’m afraid you’ll be terribly bored.”

“With you?” Bond winked. “Never.”

Q picked up his messenger bag, shouldering it, just as Bond took up the briefcase of equipment. “Well then. Walk me out?”

“With pleasure.”

  
  
  


“Now, Bond, here is where I get to reveal a fun fact about myself,” Q said, standing outside the MI6 building. “I don’t drive.”

Bond blinked, surprised by the random information. “...You don’t?”

“No. I know how to build a car, piece by piece, from the ground up, but I could not drive one for the life of me.” He looked to the agent, the tiniest smile on his face. “MI6 has drivers and cars available that usually drive me into the city, and I take cabs or public transport beyond that.” 

Bond suddenly caught what Q was setting up for him to invite, and he held up his keys. “A very pretty lab geek made me a very nice car,” he said. “If you wanted a ride.”

“I have it on good authority that lab geek makes very good technology, so I’ll test it.” Q nudged his shoulder lightly, then waved ahead of them. “After you.”

  
  
  


Driving home with Q in the car was incredibly distracting, even though the man did nothing but silently fiddle with his phone for half the drive. The other half of the drive nearly killed Bond, because it spent making quiet, teasing commentary toward Bond’s driving. 

Things like “You do know, Bond, that traffic lights are not suggestions?” and “I’d really rather not rebuild your bumper when a car brake-checks you, thank you.” 

“If you’re going to backseat drive, get in the actual backseat,” Bond said. 

“You see, James, I would,” Q drawled, and Bond felt a rush at the name change. “Except I’m fairly certain undoing my seatbelt in a car with you would be suicide.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Bond said, turning into the parking lot of his apartment building. “I’m done driving.”

Q looked to Bond just as the car shut off, laying a hand on the agent’s arm gently. “James, remember you are free to tell me to leave - but, if you’d like, I’d make yesterday up to you.”

“More like this morning,” Bond corrected. “But yeah. Sure.”

  
  


Once in the apartment, Q moved fast, dragging James in for a kiss. “Remember the system?” At James’ nod, he prompted, “Color?”

“What’s greener than green?” James asked. “Neon?” 

Q laughed, and began pushing him backward toward his bedroom. “Strip and lay down, I have an idea.”

Ideas that involved being naked on a bed immediately sounded good, so James wasted no time following his instructions - only to realize he had no idea how exactly he was meant to lay, because everything that came to mind seemed uncomfortably like posing. He sat, looking around, before slumping back against the headboard to wait. He’d just let Q tell him, he supposed.

Q stepped into his bathroom, and appeared a moment later with items in hand - a condom and a bottle of lube in one, dispelling any lingering doubts there may have been about the situation, and a bottle of lotion in the other that left James wondering. 

“Lay out on your stomach, please,” Q directed. When James complied, he felt the smaller man’s legs go over him as weight settled onto the backs of his thighs: Q was straddling him. A moment later, lotion was being pumped gently onto his spine, and James let out a small, contented noise as the concept of a massage finally occurred to him. Not sex, but Q’s item selection implied that was coming later, and James could be patient.

Especially for a massage. James couldn’t remember the last time he’d been anything even remotely close to relaxed.

Q’s fingers, long and dextrous from years of speedy typing and nimble electronic work, started carefully circling between Bond’s shoulder blades, slowly encouraging the major tension to bleed out. Just as Bond accepted the touch, the hands rolled over, knuckles starting to dig into long-abused muscle tissue. 

“Fuck,” James swore, as Q worked out a particularly harsh knot. There was a shifting noise over him, and then lips brushed the sore space, as if in apology. 

And then he did it again.

“Oh, shit, that’s-...” James’ voice broke off, mid-complaint. “Oh, nice. That’s nice.”

Q hummed in a distant acknowledgement of the compliment, and pressed on, slowly working all the tension from his back. 

Bond lost track of time, losing himself in the feeling of skilled fingers dancing across his spine and pressing deep into muscle tissue, releasing tensions he hadn’t even been aware of. 

Eventually, Q nudged his shoulder, signaling him to roll over on his back.

In all honesty, Bond had been more relaxed during his massage than aroused, and his dick reflected that in only the slightest of chub rather than a full erection. Q didn’t even look at him, though - he just started rubbing lightly on Bond’s chest. Over his shoulders, around the lines of his muscles, into his sides… Less of a massage, and more of a sensual rub, warming Bond’s skin under the touches. 

Q lowered his head, then, and took a small patch of James’ skin into his mouth, starting the process of leaving what he predicted would be an impressive hickey. 

“Mm,” James hummed, and then reached a hand up to tug at the fabric of Q’s shirt. “Shouldn’t you be wearing less?”

“Maybe.” Q caught his hands as he pulled away from him, and guided them up to the bars of James’ headboard. “First - leave these up here, for me.”

James took hold of the posts obediently, waiting for a sign as to what he was meant to do from there.

“Good boy,” Q praised, and then sat back, crossing his arms at his waist to pull off his shirt. A moment later went the belt, and then the man was standing up to finish removing the rest of his clothes. It wasn’t much of a striptease, really - Q moved precisely and efficiently, but the movements were so very Q that Bond was hopelessly entranced anyway.

He climbed back onto the bed once fully nude, and arranged himself to lay on his side between Bond’s legs, placing a small kiss to the inside of his thigh. He moved up, then, kissing and slightly suckling as he went, teasing the skin all the way up to his dick. A small kiss landed on his sack, and then that was in Q’s mouth, being lightly toyed with and teased as his fingers took to gently stroking him into hardness. 

James hummed at the light pleasures, letting his eyes fall shut as his hands gripped tighter to the posts of his headboard. 

Q swapped his hands with his mouth, palming his balls as he took Bond into his mouth. James hesitated to consider it a blowjob - it was less like actual stimulation, and more like Q was…playing with him. 

Sure enough, the second Bond started to really arch into it, fully erect and ready for something more substantial, Q pulled away.

He opened his eyes, looking down his chest to watch Q roll a condom onto him.

Onto _him._ Implying he wouldn’t be the one fucked, this time.

Bond wondered if he was excited or dissapointed. 

Then Q was fingering himself open, and Bond realized he didn’t care. Whichever was better than the other, that was fucking _hot_ to watch. 

Q shifted back up, straddling James’ waist again. He didn’t take Bond into him, though, just got close enough to him where James could _feel_ his fingers moving, knuckled occasionally brushing against his dick, and that was maddening.

“Q,” Bond said, almost a whine.

“No, no,” Q breathed, clearly enjoying himself. “Try again.”

Bond let out a breath through his nose. “ _Sir.”_

“Good boy.”

Q pulled his fingers from himself, and in one smooth motion, guided Bond into him.

Bond dug his nails into the edge of his palms to keep from unwrapping his hands from the headboard. Not touching was a lot harder than he had anticipated. 

Q began shifting, rolling his hips lightly back and forth, far too slow for Bond’s tastes. 

“Now, do me a favor,” Q said, and leaned forward again, rolling a nipple between his fingers and lowering his mouth back to the hickey he’d left before. “And count.”

“Count what?” Bond asked, only to be answered as Q moved a single centimeter beyond the existing hickey, and started on a second. “… _Oh.”_

On their own, the hickeys or the ride would have perhaps gotten old - they weren’t enough, not by far, and Bond was far too used to tuning out sensations to be satisfied with either for long.

With both, though, he was going insane. He kept being drawn into the mouth moving along his collarbone, focusing on the sensations there, only to be pulled back by the teasing roll of Q’s hips grinding into his cock. 

Q pulled off his neck, smiling down at Bond. “That’s two.” He tapped the reddened skin with his fingers, before lowering again. 

_Suck, bite, kiss._ “Three.”

_Suck, bite, suck, roll of hips…_

“Four,” Bond murmured at the next one. 

“Five,” he gasped when that one was done. 

“Si- _shit._ Six.” 

Bond counted out each one, as Q decorated his collarbone, occasionally changing his pace or clenching down on Bond or shifting ever so slightly, and James was going to _die._

“Thirteen,” he practically cried out, at the end, desperate for _something_ satisfying. “Q. Sir. _Please_.”

“Thirteen’s nice,” Q said. “Give me your hands.”

Bond took them off the headboard immediately, bringing them to Q, who guided them to his hips. He held them there, rolling once, twice - showing Bond he could guide the rhythm of the actual fucking then.

And then he grinned, wicked and twisted, and told him, “You have thirteen seconds until I take over again.” 

Bond wasted no time, dragging Q against him, fucking into him as best he was able, grinding in deeply and taking pleasure in how Q stuttered his way through his own counting.

And he was counting, numbers almost a physical tease. “One, two, three - ah, nice, _yes -_ four, five…”

Bond realized where the devious part of the plan came in, just as Q drawled out a happy “Thirteen.”

Because Q _stopped._

Bond dug his fingers into Q’s hips, staring up at the quartermaster in disbelief. “ _Please,”_ he begged. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Possibly,” Q replied, easily, and then resumed his own grind. “One, two, three…”

Bond felt like the next thirteen seconds were more like minutes, but then Q lifted his hands away from Bond’s, relinquishing control again.

This time, James immediately took command, wrapping his arms behind Q’s back and flipping them over, so that he was fully in control of the pace without having to rely on Q’s response, and began fucking into his partner with earnest. 

Q got to the count of _four_ before it dissolved into quiet praise and moaning, and Bond took personal satisfaction in it. 

With Q’s legs wrapped around his waist and his hand on Q’s dick, the lack of control from the day before seemed like a weird dream, distant and unobtainable. 

Then Q’s hands slid down his back, grabbing his ass, before smacking against one harshly, and Bond welcomed the feeling back. 

“You took control,” Q breathed out between moans. “That’s-.. _ah._ That’s a bad boy move, that is.”

Bond considered a quip of _you seem to like it,_ but what he did instead was tuck his face into the side of Q’s neck, placing a small kiss over his pulse point. “Terribly sorry, _sir,_ but you were too hard to resist.”

Q’s hand moved off his backside to grip into the short blonde strands of hair at the back of his head, holding them together tight as Q arched into him. “We’ll…Ah. We’ll work on that.”

The promise of _more_ set a warmth to blooming in James, quickly matched by the wave of pleasure of his orgasm as he came into Q (or, rather, the condom, but still). Immediately, he moved his hand to a faster pace, pumping Q quickly until he came as well, and they were both slumped together in happy exhaustion.

Q’s hand trailed lightly up and down James’ spine, just for a moment, before he tapped his shoulder twice. “Up, now,” he guided, voice soft. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

 

  
  


Q apparently had plans for the cleanup as well, because the second Bond stopped pinning him, he headed to the bathroom, and turned on the tub faucet. 

A  _ bath.  _ Not something James bothered with often, not when a shower could be done much faster and easier. 

Soon, Q was guiding him into the tub to sit with him, getting James to lean back against Q’s chest as Q’s long fingers massaged shampoo into his scalp. 

Being so heavily at someone else’s mercy was...strange, to say the least. But there was something pleasing about it, something so comfortable about being able to give his control to someone else for a while instead of having to do everything on his own. James was an independent person more through necessity than choice, and being so close to another person, even just carnally, was…

Well, it was amazing. 

So, he shared a bath with Q, fighting the urge to doze off as he was washed and petted and generally spoiled with rarely-given affections. 

When dried and in bed, fingers still playing with his hair and his back and shoulders free of an ever-present tension, Bond couldn’t help but think it.

_ I could get used to this.  _


End file.
